Dressed to Impress
by Lyowyn
Summary: After another guest makes a complaint, Crowley wages a single-demon war against Aziraphale's favorite dining establishment.


"I just think that a person ought to pick up a few hobbies in retirement," Aziraphale was saying, over dessert at The Ritz, on Sunday night. "It isn't as though I don't perform the odd miracle, the occasional good turn, but without all of the paperwork and reports to fill out, I have a lot more free time."

"I'm not arguing with you about having hobbies in general," Crowley said. "It's just that one in particular."

"What's wrong with needlepoint? I find it very relaxing."

"It isn't the needlepoint itself… though, why you feel the need to act any more like a… _never mind_. My point is that even if I'm not exactly on Hell's payroll anymore, I'm still a self-respecting demon. I can't have a needlepoint sampler with a frilly tartan frame, hanging on my wall, that says _'Bless this mess.'_It's just not on, Angel."

There was a polite clearing of the throat, followed by, "Pardon me, sirs?"

They looked up to see their waiter hovering over the table, looking uncomfortable.

Having already paid their bill, Aziraphale asked, "Is something the matter?"

"I'm not sure how to say this exactly," the man hedged. "You are, of course, some of our most valued customers. Only… well, there's been a complaint, and…"

"A complaint about what?" Crowley asked, scanning around the room to look at the other diners, expecting to see the guilty party looking back.

"Perhaps there has been a mistake," Aziraphale said, a certain inflection in his voice making it clear to Crowley that he was exercising a bit of divine influence to send the waiter on his way.

"No, hang on, Angel. I want to hear this. A complaint about what?"

"The Ritz has a certain reputation for class and elegance," the waiter started. "To maintain that high standard, we do employ a dress code for diners."

Crowley snorted out a laugh. "I've been telling you it's time for a new suit, Aziraphale. Tartan may have been _stylish_ in the 1950's, but the verdict's in. It doesn't meet The Ritz's high standards for class and elegance."

The waiter coughed. "Actually, sir. It's _your_ attire that's the problem."

"_My_ attire?"

"Yes, sir. I'm terribly sorry, but we do require a jacket and tie. You're jacket is fine, of course, but in future please wear a collared shirt and necktie when dining with us. Additionally, jeans and sportswear are not allowed for either ladies or gentlemen. I'm sure that you can understand."

"It's a good thing that I'm not a lady or a gentleman then," Crowley growled out in an undertone.

Aziraphale managed to keep a straight face while he thanked the waiter and promised that his "dining companion" would be sure to adhere to the dress code in future. It lasted until the man was out of sight, and then he bubbled over with mirthful giggles, at the look of indignant outrage on Crowley's face.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not dressed like a street person. I can't be expected to look like some kind of straight-laced businessman out with his wife, just so you can get your daily fix of crepes, or whatever. I have a _look_ to maintain."

"Of course you do, dear," Aziraphale said through the last of his giggles. "It's a very good look on you. Very modern. Very fashionable. It just isn't the sort of look that The Ritz expects from its guests."

"Which one of them do you think complained?" Crowley demanded, looking around at the other diners.

"Oh, does it really matter?" Aziraphale asked. "It's not exactly a hardship to magic up a shirt and tie, and trousers that are a bit less… provocative. Or, if you insist on maintaining your_look_, we can just glamour the lot of them into ignoring the fashion faux pas."

"You're the only fashion _faux pas_ at this table," Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale sighed. "You're going to make a huge fuss about this, aren't you?"

"A fuss?" Crowley asked, as innocently as a demon could manage. "No fuss. I'm happy to follow the dress code."

"You are?"

"Of course. The Ritz has its reputation for class and elegance to maintain, after all. I couldn't possibly sully that with my _provocative trousers_."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you know me?"

"This isn't going to be good, is it?"

"Oh, _Angel_," Crowley said, pityingly. "This is war."

oOoOoOo

On Monday, when Aziraphale met Crowley at the park, to feed the ducks prior to their standing lunch date, Crowley was wearing a catholic school girl uniform. Though, Aziraphale couldn't imagine the school that would allow the fishnet stockings and stiletto heels that Crowley wore beneath the red, tartan skirt. The tie was held in place with a silver tie pin in the shape of a serpent, and the badge over the left breast of the blazer had a similar snake motif with the words 'Crowley's School for Wayward Demons,' embroidered above, and few words of Latin below.

Aziraphale wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, and he'd definitely been expecting_something_, but it hadn't been this.

"Alea iacta est," Aziraphale read out Crowley's school motto. "The die has been thrown?"

"It's what Caesar said when he crossed the Rubicon," Crowley said, not even bothering to hide his pleased smirk.

"This is your own personal Rubicon then? You really mean to wage a war against The Ritz's dress code?"

"You're the one who said that we should take up hobbies."

"You know they assassinated Caesar?"

"Course, I was there, but that was _after_ he won the war, and anyway, he had it coming after that cock-up in Alexandria. No one burns down my angel's library and gets away with it."

Aziraphale had to fight to remain stern. "That assassination destabilized the entire Roman Empire."

Crowley waved it off. "It would have happened eventually anyway. Caesar was a tyrant. He shouldn't have burned his own fleet in the first place. If he couldn't manage to set a fire over water without having it spread to half the city, he deserved to die."

Aziraphale didn't have the heart to argue. "You're really going to wear that to lunch?"

"Yup."

Aziraphale sighed. "The pigtails are a nice touch."

Crowley twirled one of them around his finger and gave Aziraphale a playful smirk. "I'll let you pull them if you want."

oOo

On Tuesday, Crowley wore a chocolate brown frock covered in orange pom-poms.

"I liked the tartan skirt better," Aziraphale said.

"Of course you did, but that isn't really the point."

oOo

For breakfast on Wednesday, Crowley chose a yellow tartan suit, all with matching jacket, trousers, and waistcoat.

"Ah, yes," Aziraphale said, "much better."

oOo

At dinner on Thursday, it was a neon orange jacket, a blue shirt, and a magenta tie with lime green polka-dots that matched the colour of his trousers.

Aziraphale winced. "Is this the nuclear option?"

"Oh, I'm only getting started."

oOo

Friday was a knee-length cocktail dress, made of some kind of faux fur, in all the colors of the rainbow.

Aziraphale didn't actually think it was worse than the previous day's sartorial monstrosity, but he didn't say so, because he didn't want to hurt Crowley's feelings.

"I think Madame Tracy probably had that same frock in the nineteen-sixties," he said instead, and Crowley seemed pleased.

oOo

Aziraphale was enjoying his dessert on Saturday, while Crowley watched and nursed a glass of brandy.

His usual sunglasses had been replaced by ones with pink-tinged lenses and star-shaped frames. His black jacket had large shoulder-pads, embellished with a fringe of frilly, black feathers. He wore a silver bowtie, purple satin trousers, and a matching fez.

The waiter coughed when he brought over their check.

"Ah, thank you," Crowley said as he took it.

"The management would like you to know that they've changed the dress code, and The Ritz no longer requires neck ties. Jeans are also allowed, provided that they are black or dark grey," the waiter said in a very formal and official tone. Then he added in a pleading whisper, "Please, sir. Have mercy."

Crowley smiled, and handed the bill back. "Would you mind adding a bottle of champagne to this? Moet & Chandon, I think. Aziraphale?"

"Oh, yes," the angel agreed. "That sounds lovely."

Crowley raised his glass when the champagne arrived. "To victory in battle."

Aziraphale clicked his glass against Crowley's happily enough, and took a sip. His eyes caught on the fez and feathers. "You've certainly won, but I wonder if it was worth the price. You could have just willed them to accept your usual attire."

"I could have," Crowley agreed, "but, if I did that, how would they ever _learn?"_

Aziraphale wasn't sure what lesson they were supposed to have learned. _He'd_ already known that Crowley would go to any lengths to prove a point. It was that kind of stubborn determination to fight the establishment that had sent him sauntering down into Hell in the first place.

"I hope this means that you'll be going back to your usual style?"

Crowley shrugged. "I dunno, I rather like this jacket."

"You look like Elton John's evil twin."

"Electric boots and a mohair suit," Crowley said, grinning. "It's really a pity that they gave in so quickly. Though, I suppose it wouldn't hurt to really make sure that they got the message."

"I suppose that's all you can expect when begging mercy from a demon."

oOoOoOo

Author's Note:

This story came about when I was researching some details on The Ritz's valet parking for "Princes of the Universe" and stumbled upon the dress code. I was originally going to write something about Crowley intentionally breaking the dress code and using it in his reports, but somehow this happened instead. I'm not even sorry.

Comments of all shapes, sizes, and varieties are very much appreciated. I love to hear from you.

If you liked this, I do have a few other Good Omens fics. You can find them from my profile page.

Blanket permission is granted for all translation, podfic, and fanart- as always. So, if that's something you're interested in, feel free. My playground is your playground.

Thanks for reading.


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